


Leader of the Landslide

by CKOBBB



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Being sober is overrated, Ben can't handle all of this sunshine, Crack Treated Seriously, Depression, Drugs, Drunk and Playing with Power Tools, Drunken Flirting, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Insomnia, Minor Character Death, Narcolepsy, Older Man/Younger Woman, Rey is as quick as a whip, Sharing Clothes, The Author Regrets Nothing, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Way Less Angsty Than It Sounds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:33:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23083267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CKOBBB/pseuds/CKOBBB
Summary: Ben's got narcolepsy and a bad habit of forgetting to take his pills. He's what you might call a perennial fuck up. His sleep schedule is beyond saving, but he's filling his time in a constructive manner. His nights are spent drinking to excess and playing with power tools, more often than not having the two activities overlap.His mom probably should have mentioned the girl across the street.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 6
Kudos: 40





	1. She's a goddamn tidal wave

**Author's Note:**

> When Ben first meets Rey, he's chest deep into a week-long buzz. All the alcohol in the world couldn't prepare him for her. She's like a landslide. Like a sucker punch to the gut and a peck on the cheek. 
> 
> But Ben's productive, determined to lend proof to the illusion of responsibility and togetherness - even as he plays with power tools and shovels fistfuls of dried cereal into his mouth. It's not the most effective way to try and convince others that you are an adult, but Ben's yet to injure himself - which is more than enough for cause for a victory lap.
> 
> She weasels her way into his life. Into his home. Under his skin. Maybe she doesn't see the air of dysfunction that follows him. Maybe she doesn't care who she's stealing clothes from. 
> 
> He really should inquire about defining their relationship, but just like the day before, he decides to put it off just one more day
> 
> This has not been beta read 
> 
> Cheers  
> \- сковвв

His contempt for his neighbors remains as strong as it was when he first arrived at Leia's house by taxi from the airport. They seemed too friendly, too interested in their newest member of the community. They would ring the doorbell when they knew his mother was out, an excuse purely to introduce themselves. Most of them would bring a small offering of food, a peace offering of sorts. He suspects his mother put them up to this, but she wouldn't admit to it even if it was true.

From the very beginning he finds that Rey is different. She's like a sucker punch to the gut combined with a warm cookie and a kiss. Words can't accurately describe her.

She has a daring sort of personality, one that wasn't afraid to egg him on or provoke a sleeping giant. Unlike the rest of his neighbors, she doesn't come with gifts. Or even to meet and gawk at him like he’s an animal in the zoo.

It starts with the ringing of his doorbell, the sheer noise waking him from the couch, where he’s busy sleeping off a hangover. He tries to ignore it at first, but the ringing persists, getting more aggressive with every second he dares to try to pretend it doesn’t exist. He makes a mental note to disconnect the instrument from hell before he finally relents, heaving himself off the couch. His head feels like it weighs a thousand tons, and he’s not even sure how he’s able to drag his feet closer to the door. He at least has it in mind to peek through the window pane to size up the source of his annoyance, completely prepared to chew out some damn girl scouts, if it comes to that.

He remembers the way her lips hugged the stem of tootsie pop, rolling the candy around in her mouth, from cheek to cheek. She has a look of casual indifference when he opens the door in nothing more than his boxers and shorts. All determination he had been brimming with only moments ago is gone, because out of everything that could have been on the other side of his door, he didn’t expect a living manifestation of a wet dream to be standing on the front porch.

"What?"

Despite the voice in his mind insisting he be polite (lest he ruin his chances to get laid), Ben’s hangover is far more overpowering. It seems to give him this great ability to completely ignore the more rational side of his brain, which now that he reflects on it, probably isn’t so great.

His greeting is not friendly, and it's not really a greeting at all. But unlike the rest of the suburban middle classes he has encountered here, she doesn't bristle or even seem to care that he isn't welcoming her with open arms. In fact, she rolls her eyes and ignores him completely, ducking under the arm he’s resting on the door frame, and entering the house like she owns the place.

He doesn't have the energy to tell her no, and his brain isn’t awake enough to fire off a string of warnings, so he just follows. She seems to know exactly where she is going, judging by the way she makes her way through the place, making a quick stop at the fridge to inspect its contents, frowning ever so slightly as she determines that yes, the only beverages inside are alcoholic. Without even asking she shoves aside a six pack he’s been working on, eyes and hands shooting to the glass bottles at the very back of the fridge. Despite taking liberties without so much as asking permission, she isn’t completely heartless. Holding a pair of beers by the necks of the bottles, Ben can’t help but notice how small her hands are.

She offers him one of the beverages, to which he replies with a grateful, “Thanks,” but then finds himself realizing that this is _his_ goddamn beer. But before he has the ability to process all the complaints his brain has about this situation, the girl is off to her next destination. And Ben is following at her heels, like some placated puppy now that he’s got his beer.

What harm can someone as small as her do? A lot, it turns out.

She makes her way into the two car garage, past the place where his mother’s car would usually rest, and to the side that Han had deemed his workshop. It’s cramped and cluttered with various tools and appliances, not to mention the hunk of steel covered by a blue tarp that takes up the majority of the space on this side of the room.

Han’s always had his own way of organizing things. When he had first arrived, it had been in a perpetual state of organized chaos. Various toolboxes were left open, rust on their hinges indicating that it had been some time since anyone bothered to close them. Screwdrivers and screws were stored in the same place, hammers and nails in another. It was the sort of organization that could only make sense to his father, therefore the urge to clean had taken him over within the first week. He steadfastly maintains that it was the adderall he’d been recently prescribed, and not another cog in the process of mourning.

As he would quickly come to find, Rey wasn’t the sort to stand back and admire the work he had put into sorting each nut and bolt. In fact, she immediately got to work doing her very best to undo all of his efforts in a record amount of time. She’s shuffling through the various tools and not bothering to put them back into their meticulously organized places, like some sort of hurricane blowing through the place. He gets the feeling that any sort of protesting would go unheeded, so he’s left to stand by and watch the carnage unfold, only aided by the occasional sip of his watered down beer.

He watches helplessly as she sucks on her candy, never once taking it out of her mouth. At one point she bends over, showing off an ass hugged tightly by a pair of daisy dukes, riding up high to expose long legs that go on for days. No doubt his medication has lowered his sex drive, because a more sober minded Ben Solo would have most definitely not taken this long to notice such a detail.

He swallows the lump in his throat, suddenly feeling his mouth go dry. He brings the beer to his lips to quench his thirst, eyes never leaving the curves of her body. Even in the faint light provided by the window above the tool bench, he can see that she’s got her summer tan going, and it doesn’t stop at the very edges of her frayed shorts, nor the skin he can see as they ride a little higher up her legs. He wonders if there’s a pale outline of a swimsuit or bikini underneath all of that. Or better yet, if she was one of those Georgia girls who opted to forgo clothing completely when sunbathing.

"Gonna stare at my ass all day?" She quips to him, not even turning her head. There’s no fucking way she can see him checking her out from where she’s hunched over, head buried between two shelves as she investigates the vacant space between it and the wall. The only logical conclusion is that she’s got eyes on the back of her head.

 _'Please be eighteen_ ,' is all he can think.

‘Sorry’ is what he means to say, and it’s what any well socialized and properly adjusted individual might say to being called out for being so shameless, but Ben is neither of those things at this stage in his life.

Instead, words tumble out of his mouth like projectile vomit, and there’s no stopping it once it begins. “It gets my mind off the mess you’re making.”

As if for good measure, she emphatically shoves a toolbox aside on his father's tool bench, the motion causing some of the various instruments she’s set on the surface to fall to the ground, the sound of metal hitting concrete echoing through the room. It momentarily jolts him out of the process of mentally mapping out what every inch of her body might look like without clothes on, but then her tank top begins to ride up on the smooth skin of her navel, and Ben’s pretty much gone.

She still doesn't bother to look at him when she speaks. It probably should irritate him, but somewhere in his head he’s rationalized that being able to check her out so blatantly is a fair exchange.

"Any idea where your pa's multi tool went?"

“Yeah,” he replies coolly, starting to feel his hangover subside and the smallest of buzzes coarse through his veins in the form of alcohol. “I did, before you tore up the place.”

He prepares to be chewed out for the snarky remark. It’s what every other woman in his life would have done, so it’s what he’s come to expect. But she continues to surprise him, never quite doing what he expects.

Instead of ferocity or annoyance, she turns to him with an amused smirk, a look of mischievousness sparking in her eyes. He isn’t sure if his face is contorted into an expression of shock or awe, but he feels his heartbeat speed up a little as she tucks some loose strands of her brown, sun kissed hair behind one ear and finally takes that damn tootsie pop out of her mouth with a pop. Ben doesn’t think he’s ever been so jealous of a piece of candy.

"Your mum told me you'd be an ass."

"She said that?"

She leans back on the bench, ass just barely tall enough to use the surface as a seat, long legs jutting out a bit toward him. In one hand she holds the candy, and with the other she takes the unopened bottle of beer, knocking the cap against the edge of the workbench in a swift and deliberate motion. It comes off effortlessly, like she’s done this a million times.

"Not in those words. But it’s close enough."

"Hope I'm living up to expectations at least."

"Yeah, but…" her eyes meet his momentarily as she trails off mid sentence.

"But maybe you shouldn't just barge into someone else's house?"

She’s in the middle of swallowing a sip of beer when he says it, and it’s the first time it seems he’s caught her off guard. The cool and collected facade is broken, if only for a split second, before roaming her eyes over him. He’s once again suddenly aware of his lack of shirt and pants.

“That’s rich coming from the guy who never visited his parents.”

It stings, but Ben doesn’t let it show. He’s not particularly talented at things that don’t involve alcohol or drugs, but burying his pain is one of the few exceptions.

“Don’t talk about shit you know nothin’ about,” he calmly replies, voice low and coated in a false layer of indifference.

“What are you gonna do about it if I do?” She pushes off the bench and paces toward him, closing the space between them before he even processes it. Instinctively, Ben leans back a little, but finds that there is no space to move against the covered Cadillac.

The conversation should be pissing him off, but the encounter has thus far only left him ridiculously turned on. Despite being able to more than hold his liquor, he feels the familiar swell of confidence that accompanies being two or three drinks in. It’s probably all in his head. Or maybe he’s drunk on the hormones triggered by being in such close proximity to what will surely be the topic of many future masturbation sessions.

His voice is low, and he can feel the tension rife in the air. The height difference between them forces his bare chest directly at her eye level, but the combination of him looking down and her craning her neck upward is enough to close the distance. He’s so close he can feel her breath on his cheeks. It’s intoxicating, being this close to someone after feeling so isolated for years.

“Maybe I won’t tell you where I put the multi tool.”

As much as he wants to close the distance, he shows some restraint and pulls up, bringing the beer to his lips for a good hearty swig. He doesn’t see her expression, only hears the huff of annoyance and imagines a quick roll of the eyes. It’s his turn to wear a cocky smirk.

“Ass,” she complains before going back to face the tool bench.

“At least you were warned. Most people get the experience raw and unprepped.”

“Lucky me,” she says before downing nearly a third of the beer in one go. He watches her throat as it swallows each gulp, and he finds himself wondering whether she’d be good at taking his cock that deep.

He doesn’t want this encounter to end. It’s the most eventful twenty minutes he’s had since he’s moved here.

“But really, I need that multi tool.”

He uses it as an excuse to back her up against the edge of the workbench, his raging hard on pressed against her as he leans above her, the beer-free hand navigating the latch of one of the toolboxes before reaching inside and pulling the thing out. He steps back, finding himself immediately missing the feeling of her body against his. Palm facing upward, he offers her the tool.

“You could have just asked for it instead of barging in.”

She shrugs, but takes the tool in earnest, "Not my fault you locked the door to the garage. Wouldn't even know I had been in and out, grabbing what I needed without either of us seeing each other."

"And miss this? I couldn't take my eyes off you if I wanted to."

He isn't sure if he's made her blush or if she’s become uncomfortable by the comment, despite the fact that he had just been grinding his dick against her moments ago. The lighting in the garage is too shitty, the sun shining through a window as their only light source. She might be like him, far better at dealing with people through actions rather than words. She doesn't leave or chew him out, so he considers that in itself to be a success. That, or she was determined to weather the storm in order to maintain access to Han’s old tools.

He leans up against the tarp that covers Hans old classic car, a beat up tin can that the old man never got around to fixing. She probably thinks hes a creep as he stares in silence, but he doesnt want to fuck things up any further by opening his mouth.

"Appreciate the help," it's dry, but it isn't meant in malice. She files alongside the covered car, and then with her back turned away from him as she sneaks past him, her firm ass brushing against the front of his shorts for more than a brief second. Or maybe he's losing it and she hadn't deliberately added a little extra friction as she rubbed against him.

Rey turns around after she makes it past him, beer in hand, and she gives him the very same smirk that she had graced him with earlier in this encounter. Something about it is beyond sexy.

"For what it’s worth, your mom only implied you were _difficult_ ," she admits to him.

"Sounds like Leia," he admonishes.

"You call your own mother by her first name?"

He grunts in reply, not really wanting to think about his mother with his current state of arousal. Fabric stained where his erection was tenting, jutting forward in a very noticeable manner.

_Have some dignity, Solo._

He tries to not make it obvious as he fidgets to adjust himself, to somehow maneuver his cock up into the waistband of his boxers like he’s getting random erections in junior high again. But subtlety isn’t his specialty, and it occurs to him that the damage has already been done, since it was just moments ago he had his hips pressed roughly against hers. He forgoes subtlety as he grabs hold of the outline of his hard on in his pants, pulling it flush against his abdomen, tucked safely into his waistband. His body has trained itself through a grueling cycle of puberty that this position means "off".

She seems to be waiting for him to say something, at least that's what he interprets her silence as. He has never been skillful at reading faces. Experience has told him that any assumption he’s likely to make is grossly miscalculated.

"Leia didn't mention you,” he says awkwardly, as if he was expecting his mother to tell him that sex on legs ten years his junior was living nearby. But then again, Leia didn’t really say much before or after the funeral. Or maybe she had and he just wasn't paying attention. Selective hearing wasn't strictly a canine trait.

"Your mom and I never talked much before Han died. I was mainly here for him."

_Oh._

It's like a bucket of cold water has been poured on him, and he finds his dick retreating at the very mention of Han.

She must see the way his face has gone solemn, because she then adds, “To help with car stuff.”

That would explain her familiarity with the garage.

“Did you guys ever finish the Falcon?” Ben refers to the Cadillac covered by the blue tarp. He’s refused to remove it, to even look at the machine that seemed to garner more love and attention from his father than he did.

“No. He never let me touch it.” Figures that he wouldn’t trust some kid with his prized possession.

"He was a good man," she tells him, and Ben wishes he could agree with that statement, but the truth hurts.

"Good to hear it," he grits out, voice low in his throat. He takes the moment to finish the remaining contents of his beer, setting it down on the tarp resting upon the hood of the Cadillac. The wound still feels so fresh.

"It's funny," she begins, trying to lighten up the mood in the room. Where there had once been sexual tension, there was now irritability etched on his face, a scowl that he couldn't wrestle control of no matter how much he wished he could shut it off and act charming.

"Your mom made it sound like you were some troll that lived under a bridge. I didn’t imagine you’d look like this. All your pictures in the house are decades old, so I wasn’t dealing with an entirely blank slate, but you’re definitely not what I expected.”

Was that a compliment? Was he supposed to interpret that as good? His mind only manages to zoom in on the last detail in her statement, an indirect ego boost that implores his brain to shut off reasonable decision making and instead blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Are you implying I’m good looking?”

Without missing a beat, Rey’s reply is quick as a whip, "I'm saying the abs do not match up with your mother's description of a lazy shut in."

He doesn't know what to say to that. Doesn't want to risk him fucking this up beyond return.

“I’ve never given them much to be proud of. Don’t see why they’d start now.”

It probably looks like her comment has gone over his head, like he’s just deflecting her words, but she doesn’t mention it. Instead he sees the smallest of smiles form on her lips before nodding to him, walking to the side door of the garage and unlocking it.

"Keep this unlocked. Won't have to bother you again with this."

But he wants her to, so the first thing he does when she’s out of sight, disappearing out the very same door, is to go back and lock it.


	2. Oh God what am I doing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> YOU WILL TAKE THIS CHAPTER AND YOU WILL LIKE IT.
> 
> Bahahaha I'm so drunk I can quit any time I want but why would I when it produces this amazing version of drunk ben 
> 
> What am I doing lmao

He didn't know how many nights had passed with her humming to his songs before he first noticed her. But there she was, sitting across the street in that old wicker chair, hidden in the dark with no porch light on. The girl from the other day. The one who had abruptly entered his life, like she belonged there. Like a tornado in Kansas.

He was too busy to confront her, or at least that's what he would tell himself. Each night he'd come out to drink his thoughts into oblivion. Each night she'd be sitting in the moonlight, humming a low tune. He'd look her way without knowing it, and it was as good a guess as any that she was staring back.

His time was spent staying up all night and sleeping all day, sustaining himself only by the grace of his mother's insistence. Leia would have someone drop off food and drinks (cereal and six packs) each week, and if not for that, he probably wouldn't have bothered to eat anything. She'd call every now and then to make sure he was bathing, though Ben suspected that she was actually checking to make sure he was still alive. 

He didn't reach out anymore. Didn't text when he woke up, or even before he went to sleep. He'd cut himself off from family after the accident took Han. Took long enough for her to convince him to come home, rather than wallow in his own self pity in his apartment in the big city. He didn't like to think about the past. The mistakes he had made. The way he had left things with his father.

By general principle, people make Ben pissed. He always manages to find something to hate about anyone he encounters - even the kindly strangers are not immune to his critical demeanor. In the past he had issues containing the fucked up thoughts of wanting to drop-kick babies and prolonging the never ending screaming matches with his parents. But it's different now. He just  _ thinks _ about doing these things now, before acknowledging the glaring absurdity of his thoughts. Like the fact that punting a small child into the air like a football would require leg strength that he just didn't have. Oh, and the societal consequences. Those were up there on the list.

Of course Ben being Ben, his mind works differently than the rest of the world. In a generation of people who love nothing more than hearing themselves talk, he's constantly doing his best to avoid any sort of human experience.

He prefers to push reality aside in favor of silence and solitary. He's learned to hate the sound of his own voice. To stew in silence, embracing the ambient noises of cricket chirping and air conditioners rumbling to life in the Georgia heat. He finds solace in the small things, such as the sound of tires rolling against a road, somewhere off in this distance. Or the hum of the street lights as they occasionally flicker on and off, in a pattern he can never quite discern. 

It's not like he  _ needed _ alone time. He had been living alone for over a decade by the time of the accident. But there was something different about the lack of sirens and horns blasting in the middle of the night. Something special that he didn't realize he missed about being able to see stars shining in the night sky. The last week or so has made him realize that he was never really alone, back in his cramped apartment, the presence of his neighbor practically radiating through the walls, in the form of a television or loud phone call.

After that week or so of enjoying himself without disturbances, Rey's unplanned visit jerked him out of his fantasy. He feels lonely, and it's a foreign and uncomfortable realization. 

He's walking through the house when he stops, staring at the wall where a family of picture frames sit. He's no older than thirteen in most of them. That was the age he really began enforcing the "no pictures" rule about himself, never feeling quite confident or comfortable with his unsightly appearance. His apartment doesn't even have a mirror above the sink, he realizes when he comes out of the shower one night, staring at his unfamiliar reflection in the mirror. 

In these images is a strange boy though, with a half smile, but light in his eyes. He's clearly loved and admired. It's obvious he shares those sentiments with the others sharing space in the frames. He wishes he could go back, but he can't, so he pushes aside his moment of clarity in exchange for a handful of antidepressants that he had been ordered to take each morning. For good measure he washes it down with a beer, which probably isn't advised, but the errant thought passes quickly, and he returns to his sabbatical from life. There's nothing to ground him or enforce a routine. Until Rey, that is.

She was like the sun. Always radiant. Always glowing. Except the sun didn't come out at night, and he'd never seen Rey out during the light of day. He wonders momentarily what she would look like in the sunlight, but his mind's eye is too hazy under the influence of drugs and alcohol.

He is almost always wasted, the liquids he consumes each night strictly consisting of cheap beer and slightly cheaper beer. He'd mix them down with handfuls of dry cereal. A diet only the gods could have attained.

Ben can't lie. He likes being drunk. The power tools that filled the garage are just an added challenge. Operating them is like a game to see how well he can function while under the influence. He hadn't fucked up and cut off any body parts yet, so he is fairly certain he's winning.

Their paths collide once again in part due to Ben’s fucked up sleep schedule. Each evening around sundown Ben would wake up, grab a six pack of beer, and wander into the garage. 

Tired eyes would strain to adjust to the flickering glow of a variety of bulbs dangling by a string overhead. Normally - though nothing about Ben is normal - he busied himself with fix-it projects. Repairing some drywall he punched as a teen, replacing the rusted hinges on the doors. Stuff that he could accomplish with just the supplies Han had hidden away around the house, having always planned to do these things but never getting around to it. 

The Cadillac sits untouched beneath the blue plastic tarp. Every morning before he goes back to bed, he tells himself that tomorrow will be the day he removes the covering and begins his work on the project. But he never deviates from his routine of putting it off  _ just one more day. _

Every night is the same, with no room for variation. He’d pop open the garage door, the place being far too humid to remain closed up in the dead heat of the Georgia summer - even at night. He'd flip on his old CD player stereo and lose himself in the sounds of crickets chirping in tune to the melody of 80s classics.

It was because of that old player that he even noticed her in the first place. Due to his clumsiness, or more likely his drunkenness, he trips over the cord and accidentally unplugs the hunk of junk from the wall. Instead of the ambient noises of summer, a carefree hum continues to carry on the melody that had been playing.

Even well over the legal limit, Ben had been perceptive enough to discover the source of the noise sitting on the porch directly across the street. It could have easily been nightmare fuel, some deranged stranger watching him. Instead, Ben is too many drinks deep to worry about possible serial killers in the night. He could probably take em.  _ Probably _ .

Squinting, he faintly makes out the way running shorts end mid thigh, long legs swinging back and forth, as though there wasn’t a care in the world. A girl. _ Or _ a dude with really smooth legs. 

Ben might have been a shut-in, but he had seen enough scary movies that his imagination was running amok with the possibilities. No porch light was switched on to aid in illuminating her (his?) features. Legs were the only things he could bother to discern from where he stood in the garage. But that was okay. Ben was a sucker for a good pair of legs. You know, given that they weren’t attached to Buffalo Bill.

And after a brief moment of squinting and staring, he realizes he knows those legs. How could he forget?

It’s perhaps because he’s drunk that he works up the courage in the first place to cross the street and investigate further.It’s that or the fact that he doesn’t know better. Either way, he lumbers over, aided only by the moonlight and a fogged out lamppost two houses down.

Ben is a sarcastic, uncaring brand of drunk. One who had a penchant to get more talkative as the night drew on. Usually this consisted of him just talking to himself, his power tools, and the project that represented his current most prominent shortcoming of his father…. but that is beside the point. Right on schedule, Ben is currently chest deep into his buzz, accompanied by a severe lack of a filter and a bottle half full of alcohol. In one hand he's got an old handsaw hanging loosely, and said beer in the other. All the tools he would ever need to make bad judgement calls.

Despite lack of aforementioned filter, he awkwardly stands before her, taking sips of his beer while not breaking eye contact. Looking back now, he realizes this move was awkward as hell, but his personal image is beyond him at this point.

“This is how a horror movie starts,” is his opening line. It’s a train of thought that he immediately regrets voicing, realizing it must have sounded exceptionally creepy.

“A creep like you walking up to a girl in the dead of night?” Her reply is quick like a whip, and Ben can see she’s wearing a light tank top with spaghetti straps, bare shoulders exposed to the heavy humidity.

“No. I mean, yes, that would also qualify. But I was referring to you just sitting here in the dark watching me.”

She doesn’t answer him immediately, causing Ben to sputter in a poor attempt to progress the conversation. A hand gestures to the decorative lantern mounted to the side of the house, “You should turn a light on." 

“Nah, there’s bugs.”

Now that she mentions it, he hasn't really noticed any pest issue from the safety of the garage. Han must have given the perimeter of the house a good spray of some serious pesticides. The kind that kids didn't just bring for camping trips or hikes in the woods. This was the whole nine yards, a sprayer and a tank. Just like he used to when Ben was a kid, yelling for him to  _ 'stay off the fucking lawn' _ for several days after. 

Within the garage it's just little flies that orbit the incandescent bulbs on the ceiling. They seem to worship them like it's some sort of star with its own gravitational pull.

Now that he's out here though, the mosquitoes are relentless and hungry. Ben finds himself somewhat grateful for the hair on his legs and arms, which bristles the bugs enough to discourage landing, but the tee shirt and shorts he wears leaves the softer parts of his body exposed. Though he remembers reading somewhere that drinking attracts more mosquitoes, which explains the frenzy the bugs seem to be in, throwing themselves at him to get a quick bite.

"The garage is sprayed down. I could do your porch tomorrow night. Got the tools for it." He doesn't know why he's offering, or why he even cares. But the words come tumbling out and who is he to stop them?

"I could do it myself if you hadn't decided to redecorate and move everything around." It seemed she wasn't going to let this grudge about reorganizing go. He tries not to care, rationalizing that they are  _ his _ tools now, and he will store them how  _ he _ wants.

"Fine, I'll show you where the equipment is and you can do the work yourself."

He sways on the balls of his feet, flip flops and socks completing his wardrobe nicely. He realizes now how this probably looks, confronting her as he holds a handsaw about as casually as one would hold a pencil. So he shifts the tool into his other hand, his huge mitt having little trouble with both. At the very least it no longer looks like he is brandishing it as a weapon. 

He takes the moment to run his now free hand through his hair, forgetting that he was just working with paint thinner. That smell was going to be a bitch to get out.

“You want to come over?” He gestures to the faintly lit garage as though he could have possibly meant somewhere else, other than the place he clearly just came from. 

“I’m pretty sure this is how girls get murdered.”

Ben can’t argue with that, but for some reason he’s compelled to convince her, “Yeah, but I’m your neighbor. We know each other.”

“Yeah? What’s my name?” It occurs to him that she never mentioned it in their previous meeting.

Leia probably knew her name. Hell, she probably knew the neighbors well enough to recite their favorite foods and colors. His mom had always been the social type. The type to remember total strangers hopes and dreams, their greatest fears and ailments. Ben? Well he was the sort of guy who spoke his mind, and combining that with alcohol had the expected result.

“I have no fucking idea,” he admits honestly, and he feels himself flush from more than just the heat.

At some point his brain decides then would be a great time to introduce himself, “I’m drunk - I mean Ben. I’m Ben.”

She laughs softly at his bluster, rising to her feet from the chair for the first time. God those legs look even better from the view down on the lawn. The platformed design of the front porch affords him a premium view from down here. He decides in that moment that he really needs to get laid, but he's at least self aware enough to recognize that unlatching a bra right now would be a titanic feat.

“Well, Ben. Promise not to cut me into pieces with your saw and I think we’ll be fine.”

He looks at the saw in his hand, a few fingers latched into the divet of the handle so that it loosely hangs at the side of his drink. He nearly forgot about that. 

Ben decides he needs to be smooth about this. To not externally reflect his internal lack of coordination. 

“Nah, too much effort. Much easier to dump a body in the woods somewhere in one piece. Animals will do the rest.”

That's not creepy  _ at all _ .

“Think smarter, not harder,” she agrees quickly, as though she sees the panic in his eyes and wants to pull him through to the other side. It's something of a miracle she is still talking to him, and even more surprising is that, without prompting, she offers her own name, “I’m Rey.”

“Ben.”

“Yeah, you said that already.”

She hopes off the porch, bare feet hitting the grass. Cool and confident, Rey takes his beer from his hand and downs a sip before handing it back to him. 

Holy shit. He's gone from 0 to 60 in terms of being turned on by this strangely bold gesture. 

_ Is this real life? _ his mind wants to ask, but he's left swallowing his words, never allowing them to leave his lips.

She's a few steps ahead of him now, on her way to the dimly lit garage. She looks back in his direction and clocks her head to the side. She wears an expectant gaze.

"You gonna show me your tools?" It takes the delay in his brain a moment to register that this isn't some innuendo about wanting to see is dick or something. 

"Sure. Yeah." He's quick to agree, and there's almost a bounce in his step as he takes long strides to accompany her across the dimly lit paved road.

The garage is as he left it, dimly lit with the smell of fresh wood shavings hinting in his nostrils. The first thing he does when they arrive is put the saw away on the tool rack. It has a nearly stenciled outline for where it belongs.

He turns back to find Rey sitting in his foldable lawn chair, long legs crossed and casually leaning back as she messes with the stereo in her lap. She navigates the buttons with each, turning up the volume as she surfs through an old mix tape he had made sometime in his late teens. He isn't sure what she is looking for, but apparently she finds it, setting down the old machine giving him a pleased look.

It causes him to momentarily forget where he is, and even more - who he is. No one has looked at him like that in a long time. Like he's not such a big fuck up. 

It isn't until the song is halfway done that he realizes the silence is getting awkward, and that his eyes are wandering a bit too much, so he tries to think fast on his feet.

"So do you want a drink?"

He motions to the six pack sitting on the floor, two bottles already emptied out. 

"Why not?" Rey replies, and before he can do the polite thing and grab her a drink himself, she bends herself across the arm of the chair, reaching with thin, muscular arms into the cardboard frame to serve herself.

For the briefest of seconds his eyes catch skin where her tank top rises up - or maybe it's her running shorts pulling down. Either way, it's enough to get Ben distracted.

"You're up late," she states, using the edge of the armrest on her chair to nudge the top from the bottle. It comes up with a small pop, clanking to the floor. Her eyes follow it, and before she can move to pick it up, Ben stops her.

"Don't worry about it. I'll get everything when I clean." And that will likely be around 45 minutes after he takes his adderall.

Ben takes the moment to grab a matching lawn chair from its place resting against the wall. In a swift movement he pops it up adjacent to her, wiping the cobwebs off with his hands before taking a seat.

Her lips crest the rim of the glass bottle as she draws a small sip from her beer. He really needs to stop looking at her lips. To stop thinking about everything she does as some kind of sexual act. He tries to memorize the details and file them away for jack off material.

"Do you make a habit of it?" 

He nearly chokes on his own drink.

"What?"

"It's not weird, I'm the same way, obviously."

His brain is having a hard time processing this with all the drugs in his system. Rey  _ cannot _ be asking and sharing stories about their masturbation habits. Especially with such a casual indifference in her voice.

"Ben?"

"Well, um," he stutters, "I guess when you have to-" and it's at this moment he makes a lewd hand motion above his abdomen "-you kind of let your body decide the frequency of it."

But Rey's eyes are currently busy studying the bottle in her hand, reading off the fine print. 

"I know what you mean. I have a mild form of insomnia. Never can get my mind and body to relax at the same time."

He's not sure what she means by this, so he attempts to fill in the pieces himself, "....So you masturbate?" 

Her eyes go wide as they flick away from the bottle and back to him, confusion rife on her features.

"What?"

"I mean, it can help." He tries so hard to salvage the moment.

"I think we are talking about completely different subjects, Ben."

He likes the way she says his name, even if he is making a fool of himself.

"What were you talking about..?"

"Being up so late."

"Oh."

It is clear he's misunderstood some part of their conversation, because Rey bursts into a fit of laughter.

"You thought I was asking you how often you whack it? Oh my god."

Oh my God is exactly what Ben is thinking, face going red like he's got a boner in junior highschool PE. He covers his face with one large palm, rubbing his temples with his thumb and index finger.

He feels a soft hand rest on his arm, pulling down at the hand he is currently using to mask his shame.

"Don't be embarrassed, it's funny." She gives him a small confident smile as she finds herself unable to remove his hand, sliding it down to his lap and grabbing his knee tenderly.

That gets his attention.

His back stiffs up as he sits up straight, jolted by the mere contact.

"If I didn't talk to anyone for two weeks I'd make my hand my best friend too."

_ Do not think of her naked, Ben Solo. Don't do it. Not now _ .

But it's too late, because despite being unimaginably flustered by his mistake, all he can think about is the hand on his knee - wait, when did it get to his thigh?

"So what were we talking about?" He needs to regain some of his composure. Needs to act as suave as he did earlier when he approached her in the pitch dark with a saw in his hand.

"You, and your presumed fondness for the dead hours of the night." 

"Oh, yeah. I have a condition where I get really sleepy all the time. Narcolepsy. Sometimes I'll sleep too much or take a nap and it throws my whole sleep cycle off."

"For two weeks?"

"It hasn't been two weeks.." he mutters before pausing and asking himself,  _ has it? _

"Two weeks," she punctuates the words and leaves little room for doubt. "I've watched you move around this garage every night for two weeks."

"Now who's acting creepy?"

"Staying up all night on my porch was  _ my _ routine first. You just decided to act as my entertainment."

"In my defense, I had no idea I was being watched until tonight."

"You were. And I saw  _ everything _ , Solo." Her voice is teasing, in a menacing sort of way that makes Ben hastily try to recall if he had done anything stranger than usual over the last two weeks.

.

"Like what?"

"I think it was a few nights ago - you were  _ really _ into some music. Couldn't really make out the song from my place, but it sounded upbeat. I think you forgot you were wearing flip flops because you slipped on the garage floor and fell on your ass. Might have hit your head too."

"I know exactly which night you are thinking of. It felt like the worst hangover of my life. Everything was sore and I could feel my heart beating inside of my head all morning."

"Morning?"

"It was morning to me."

"Please tell me that's the worst you saw."

"If we're going to play the question game, you have to let me have a turn."

"Fine. Ask me anything."

"Well I already know you're a boxers, not briefs, guy. So it's like I practically already have a window to your soul."

He resists asking her what kind of underwear she prefers, imagining her without those running shorts. He instead opts to take a sip from his beer, "to be fair, I'm not a very interesting guy."

The look she gives him is hard to discern. But she's studying him, or at least it seems that way. Rey's looking him over, as though she is in the process of an appraisal. 

"You're plenty intriguing. From the moment I first learned Han and Leia had a son, I wondered what you were like."

He sighs uncomfortably at the mention of his parents.

"I'll start with something easy. What do you eat for breakfast?"

"That's an odd question."

"It didn't feel right to open with asking about your relationship with your parents."

He brushes it off, but is thankful nonetheless for the consideration she had enough to contain her curiosity, which was no doubt dying to burst out in verbal form. Needless to say they would be coming back to this topic.

"Ideally? Two slices of toast with bacon. Extra crispy. I'm not much of a breakfast guy to be honest. Just enough to get my meds metabolized."

She perks up at the discussion of his meds, and for a moment Ben is unsure if that was a smart thing to mention. He knows he shouldn't give a shit about any societal stigmas attached to the uppers and downers that fill his medicine cabinet, but part of him is worried she will get the wrong impression. He tries to wear a mask of indifference as his brain goes into overdrive, kicking himself because it had just seemed like he was making up some ground for his earlier blunder.

"Your turn?" She asks politely, calmly, and nothing like the girl bouncing on her heels that he had first encountered the day before.

"Great," he tries to think of a question, one of the thousands that he wants to know. The hard part is figuring out one that's not completely inappropriate for two people who barely know each other. But of course Ben can't stop thinking about her underwear.

"Boxers or briefs?" He asks, trying to seem smooth on the outside. It's all he can think up on the spot.

Rey grins as she sets down her beer, standing up and facing Ben. Air escapes his lungs when he sees her reach for the waistband of her skimpy running shorts and pulls them down. He's blessed with the view of nothing but skin, a smooth hip and partial view of a tight ass cheek waving in his face like a piece of meat. 

He could have died right then, right there.

"Neither," Rey gives a cocky wink as she pulls her shorts up, ending the show. Without another word or glance at him, she returns to her lawn chair.

Ben is left with his mouth going dry. With his heart beating furious amounts of blood into his dick. He has no idea how he is going to think of another question, much less one that didn't end in her revealing more skin and taking off more clothes. 

Unlike him, it turns out Rey has no shame. "What age were you when you lost your virginity?"

"Nineteen," he answers quickly, almost quietly. He doesn't give himself time to be stunned by how forward her question is. He decides that not thinking about these things will stop him from second guessing himself. It gives this facade of confidence that he really needs right now. 

"Same question to you."

"Sixteen," her lips pull up ever so slightly, as if she is remembering it fondly. Or it might be the alcohol, seeing as she's just reached for her second bottle and a girl her size likely doesn't hold her liquor well.

"I've been wondering this since yesterday. You don't have to answer if you don't want to -"

"Try me," he dares her, taking a sip of his drink for good measure. He should really probably be eating with this, but the cereal is inside and Rey is out here. And she is currently much higher on his list of priorities.

"How big is your dick?"

Oh.

He nearly choked on his drink, and that earns a cocky smile from her. Once again, Rey effortlessly upstages him when it comes to life. 

The ball is in his court now, and the part of his brain that's currently on insists he match her. This means she's into him, right? He hopes to God that he isn't misinterpreting this. There's still the small chance that she's fucking with him. Or worse, she's under eighteen and he's sporting an erection for jailbait.

"Before you pulled down your shorts or after?" The words seem strange coming from his mouth, like someone else said them. He really isn't this smooth. But the alcohol in his veins turns him into a different person. Someone more bold and darin. 

Ben cant really decipher Rey's reaction to his teasing question. He's suddenly on the edge of his seat, not knowing when he began to lean forward in anticipation. 

He can't help think that this girl is like nothing he's ever encountered. So unfiltered. So open and real. It encourages him to want to do the same, or maybe that's the buzz talking.

"Now." Perhaps involuntarily, Rey licks her dry lips, tongue peeking out between them for a quick moment as they swipe the upper and lower parts in an effort to wet them a little. He is painfully aware of how hard he is, pants tenting, and his arm awkwardly braced over his lap in a pitiful attempt to be polite and conceal it.

"Are you expecting a number or for me to pull down my pants as well?"

"I'm asking if what I felt yesterday was a bottle opener or your dick."

Drunk Ben wants to remark that a bottle opener is smaller than his dick, but then considers they come in various sizes. The ones at restaurants can get quite long. But at the same time he cant believe his mind dares to wander during a moment like this.

Rey doesn't wait for his answer. Instead, she leans forward, almost impishly guiding his arm away from his crotch region. He's too drunk to not want this, so he lets her. A moment is spent in silence as she smirks slightly, and he isn't sure if the look she is giving is one of approval, because he's never had a girl look at him like that before.

Her other hand has set down the beer bottle near her feet, and it's journeying precariously close to the apex of the tent in his pants. He feels the softest of pressure as her hand - and it looks so fucking small - feels along the length of his cock. He releases a breath he didnt know he was holding, wanting madly to buck into her grip. Or better yet, fuck her like his life depends on it 

She ends the moment of silence by removing her hand from his arm, but not his dick. Her eyes are glued to where her hand is, and he thinks he might melt into a puddle. The only thing he can think about is the small, gentle stroking motions she is applying. 

"Rey," his voice is low, lower than he intends for it to be, but that is just enough to seize her attention. 

Looking up at him through half lidded eyes, mouth curled into a satisfied look, she finally speaks for the both of them, "Looks like it isn't a bottle opener."

He can barely process what is happening. He doesn't even recount how long her hand lingers there as he stares at her face, her expression, in disbelief.

And then, as quickly as it came, the moment is over. Rey withdraws her hand and leans back in her chair. Ben sits slack-jawed with the most painful erection of his life. He considers pressing the bottle of bear to alleviate some of the tension in his groin, but then remembers that such a trick only works when the bottle is cold.

"So… um," he sputters like it's the first time a girl has touched his dick.

It's his turn for a question, he realizes. He doesn't even need to think about it. And truth be told this was probably a question he should have led with, "how old are you."

"Twenty."

The current song playing on the stereo comes to an end, and silence fills the garage. Other than the chirping of crickets and bellied croaks of frogs, all was silent. You could hear a pin drop between them. 

The answer is like a bucket of cold water dumped over him. She is ten years his junior. While he certainly doesn't feel like a perv because she's well over the legal age in Georgia, he feels disappointment. Despite the fact that she was just giving him a handjob through two layers of fabric, his first impression is that he has absolutely no chance with her. Girls like her - sexy and confident - do not end up with guys like him.

There are two reasons anyone in her shoes would be interested in a guy like him, and Ben doesn't fit the bill for either of them. Despite what she has said, he isn't in the ballpark of good looking, and despite his parents being well off, he isn't swimming in money. Although he wouldn't surprised if she's fallen for the illusion that he was going to inherit their wealth. 

Hell, it was more likely they had her as the beneficiary of their estate. From what she described, they fucking loved her.

Even the women his age he had been with were never this attractive. And to top it off he was a complete fuck up, despite being given all the tools to succeed.

"You?" 

"Thirty." He tells her, voice monotone, disappointment radiating off of him. He downs the remaining contents of his drink, pulling out another. He counts the discarded bottles at his feet, determining he is about to begin his fourth.

"Fuck." He says what he is thinking out loud, running a hand through his hair. 

"Your question" she reminds him softly, clearly trying to get past this moment just as quickly as he does.

"When did you move across the street? I don't remember you living there."

By the time he moved out he would have been 18 and she would have been 8. While he definitely would not have noticed her for the same reasons as today, hes certain he would have remembered a little girl with vast reserves of untapped energy. Yet he has no memories of shrieking children, or even his mother mentioning her when they would buy girl scout cookies every year.

"You wouldn't. I moved in about two years ago."

"I've been out of the house for twelve years," he provides, but she probably already knows that.

"Regarding my parents, how.." he hesitates as he tries to grasp the right words, but Rey beats him to it.

"Did I go about inserting myself into your parents' lives?"

It's not *exactly* what he's thinking, but it's close enough that he forgoes putting the effort into rephrasing it in a way he would asked.

"Your mom was having a yard sale. I was looking for a chair for the front porch."

He knew that wicker chair looked familiar. Even in the dark he was surprised he had not recognized it, the old thing belonging to a set that had once sat around a firepit in the backyard. He briefly wonders where the other three ended up.

"Anyways, I bought the chair and I also needed some gardening tools, so your mom was nice enough to lend me a hand. Got talking about flowers and mulch, and before I knew it she had me in the passenger seat of her car, driving to Home Depot. Paid for everything. She didn't let me pay her back with money, so she loaned me off to your old man."

That definitely sounded like his mom. She had a way of becoming best friends with random strangers. In high school she practically adopted any girl she suspected he had a crush on. Which meant even in the rare event he did have his eye on a girl, Leia's smothering became an instant turn off. Briefly the thought occurs to him that were his mother here to date upon Rey, he might not be as interested.

"Sounds like you were the perfect child I never was." He can't help but let the bitterness in his voice show. He takes a big enough swing to let the alcohol burn his throat, eyes watering at the corners. But he swallows the pain and leans back in his seat.

"Not really. They could never stop talking about you. "

The words should feel good, but they sting like he's been slapped. 

He expected her to agree, to admit that his parents took her in to fill the void he left behind. 

"Can we talk about something else? How about your family? Have enough time for them?"

It's the first time he's seen Rey look irritated. If he hadn't seen her face screw into a pained grimace, he would have thought it impossible. His words don't bounce off her like they usually do. She seems unable to shrug it off. He wonders if this is what he seemed like when his own parents were brought up.

She sits up abruptly, very nearly knocking over the beer she had placed near her feet. 

"Listen, Ben. It's getting late."

It's an odd thing to say, seeing as they both were night owls. He resists the urge to check his phone for the time. Judging by the way the crickets still chirp loud enough to hear over the stereo, they are still in the early part of the morning. There are none of the usual bird songs that usher in the sunrise, and therefore signal his time to go to bed.

"Aren't you an insomniac?" He presses her.

And just like that it's like she's moved on from what has bothered her, mind now only concerned with the task at hand.

"Yeah, but as we discussed earlier, I need time to masturbate before I go to bed." 

He doesn't have an answer for that. He wants to say something witty, but her excuse comes totally out of left field, something he isn't quite prepared for.

Ben's mouth is agape, and even though he knows her response is bullshit, drunk Ben doesn't have the energy to confront her strangely abrasive behavior. He lets her go, like he does with everything else in his life.

She stretches her long arms above her head, giving him a small smile, but it's devoid of the carefree nature that she previously attached to all her lighthearted jabs and quips. 

"Better go get a head start," she tells him, but before she leaves she leans over him, giving him an impressive view of her tits pressed tightly against the tank top she is wearing. He can't help his eyes as they refuse to travel away. 

Had he averted his eyes from where they are currently locked on her cleavage, he would have been ready for the soft press of her lips upon his own. Instead it catches him by surprise. By the time his brain recognizes what is happening, it is too late to press forward, to engulf her and reciprocate in earnest. 

"You smell like paint thinner," is all she says in a breathy voice, but he doesn't think he's ever heard something so sexy.

Rey grabs her beer from the ground and begins her short journey back across the street to her house. But not before looking back, meeting his eyes with the smallest of smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> In addition to being entirely written through the point of view of beer goggles, This shit is gonna be so sweet n fluffy I'm gonna give yall cavities. a lot of shameless Rey being shameless, and Ben being like "lol wat"
> 
> Check out my other story if you want something much, much darker
> 
> i will reply to every review because i love yall.
> 
> Mother of God I am so fucking drunk. let's just call it research for Ben in this fic.
> 
> \- сковвв


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